Page 21

Sapphire

The second my head breaks the surface, a black hole forms in my chest. An emptiness so wide it physically hurts. My mind scrambles, reaching, searching for something, but all I’m aware of is the sharp sting of cold air on my face and?—

Riven’s hand.

It’s in mine, our fingers laced together, a cruel mockery of something I should remember.

I jerk my hand away like it burns.

“What happened?” I ask, and he doesn’t answer right away.

He just looks at me, his silver eyes dark and assessing, his face half-lit by the spectral ship glowing behind him.

For a fleeting second, I think I see it. A flash of something real. A hurt so deep that it carves through him like an open wound.

But then his face smooths over, all emotion vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

“You tell me, Princess,” he murmurs, water lapping at his collarbone, the starlight turning him into something carved from shadow and ice. “You’re the one who dove in after me.”

I flinch, the words cutting deeper than they should. Because he’s right—I did dive in after him. I worried about him.

As for what happened after that…

My left palm tingles, and I curl my fingers, forcing down the panic and trying to rationalize. Because this is just like the whisper stone. Just like when he tricked me into thinking I could trust him. Like when he tried to seduce me in his quarters, and in that tent, and every other time after that when he toyed with my heart and won.

A slow, wicked grin tugs at the corner of his lips, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Exactly how off-balance I feel.

And I refuse to let him win again. I can’t.

“I just didn’t want to explain to the Winter Court how their arrogant prince drowned because he refused to wait for backup,” I say, and the water presses down around me, as if it’s trying to calm my anger.

Riven’s smirk vanishes.

“Of course,” he says, his voice laced with mockery, as if my words don’t touch him at all. “I’d hate for you to waste your breath mourning me.”

I don’t answer. Because if I do, I might scream. I might demand to know why he’s looking at me like I’m an angry scar he wants to forget.

So, I turn away from him and swim to the ship, the water churning around me, feeding off the storm inside my chest.

Finally, I grip the ladder and pull myself up, using my magic to dry myself off as I get my bearings.

The worn wood feels strangely solid beneath my fingers, despite the ship’s translucent appearance. It’s like it’s welcoming me on board—bringing me on to the spectral plane where it exists.

Behind me, Riven lands in one effortless motion. He moves with that inhuman grace of his—the kind that makes it seem like he’s barely touching the world at all. And he’s dripping wet, his shirt clinging to him, revealing enough of the definition in his chest to make my pulse jump.

Then, his sword is in his hand, steel catching the light as he scans the deck.

I snap to attention as well, my dagger out, my heart racing. My magic coils beneath my skin, ready to strike if any ghostly monsters are waiting to attack.

But there are no attacks. Instead, the boat starts to move, gliding into the endless night. And despite the translucent sails overhead and the fog drifting across the deck, the wood beneath my boots feels strangely solid.

Eventually, Riven lowers his sword.

“Perfect place for a romantic getaway,” he says dryly, and frost crystallizes along his blade, forming surprisingly elegant patterns.

I roll my eyes, tightening my grip on my dagger. “Don’t start.”

He shifts his focus to me, and I can almost imagine concern in his eyes. Like he’s checking if I’m steady. But then the moment breaks, and he’s back to the icy prince I know and don’t love—all detached chill and sharp edges.

He gestures toward the door across the way with the tip of his sword. “Let’s check below deck.”

Not a question. Not a suggestion.

An order.

I scowl as he strides forward, leaving me to keep up.

The door creaks open with unsettling ease.

The room down the steps is cramped and claustrophobic. The furniture has an eerie, otherworldly glow, shifting between real and spectral, like it can’t decide which plane it belongs to. Chairs shaped from polished driftwood sit around a narrow table in the center, and lanterns with orbs of ghostly light rest on top of it. And?—

A bed.

My stomach twists.

It’s not a small bed. Not a cot. Not some cursed, haunted hammock. It’s a full-sized bed, pushed against the far wall, the sheets neatly tucked, the mattress wide enough for two.

No. Absolutely not.

Riven moves past me, tossing his sword onto the table with zero concern for spectral curses or immediate death.

“Well,” he says, pulling his pack off and setting it down on a table. “At least there are no stowaway poltergeists. Yet.”

“You sound almost disappointed.” I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “But it’s too bad. It could have been fun watching you get thrown overboard by an angry ghost.”

He smirks. Slowly.

“I tend to make people angry, don’t I?” he says, and I glare at him, hating how much he enjoys taunting me.

“Understatement of the century,” I mutter as he starts rummaging inside the pack.

Every glance at his face leaves me unsettled, like I’m on the verge of recalling something huge—only to have it slip away the moment I reach for it.

“Everything’s still here,” he says, running a hand over his soaked shirt, squeezing out the excess water in slow, deliberate motions.

I can’t help but track the shift of muscle beneath wet fabric and the way the water glides over his skin, catching on his collarbone.

No.

I tear my eyes away, gripping the back of a chair like it might anchor me. Like it might stop my body from betraying me again.

He just watches me, his smirk creeping in like he can hear the thoughts I’m trying to shove into silence.

“You have two choices right now,” he says, reaching for the hem of his shirt and starting to lift it up. “Use your magic to dry me off, or enjoy my company sans clothing.”

Every muscle in my body tenses as my eyes travel along his body, to the bed behind him, and finally, to the trunk-like wardrobe on the side.

Good. I need a distraction. Something to focus on other than the perfect contours of Riven’s chest where the soaked fabric clings to his skin.

“Maybe there’s some spectral clothing in there for us,” I say, hurrying to the trunk before he can try anything.

It creaks as I pull it open, revealing tunics and trousers in muted colors. I pluck at the closest tunic and test its texture—soft linen, worn thin by the salt air. Seems normal enough.

“Well?” he asks, casual as can be. “Find anything that catches your interest?”

I yank the tunic out of the trunk, turn around, and thrust it at him. “Here. Put this on,” I say, and he looks back and forth from it to me, a slow up-and-down that leaves my pulse skittering.

“Careful, Sapphire. You’re staring,” he says, his brows raised in that infuriatingly confident way that makes me want to throttle him.

“Put. It. On,” I repeat, and then I stride across the room to the other door and open it, relieved when I find a bathroom.

Space. I need space right now.

Which is going to be incredibly hard to get when Riven and I are stuck together on this small, ghostly ship for gods know how long.